


12 months of a roaring city

by hongmunmu



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: F/M, I Started This When I Was 14 And Finished It When I Was 18, NAMZAYA, Slow Burn, Stabbing, Vague Sex, also poor research and little to no regard for the canon timeline, and shinraya, izamie, mizaya, namizaya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hongmunmu/pseuds/hongmunmu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A documentation of the year she spent working under the man named Orihara Izaya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. january

**JANUARY**

_the day she ruminated._

It had been three days since Namie had started working for the man.

  
Izaya Orihara, she reasoned, was not an ordinary person. In three days it seemed she had seen every possible deviation of human behaviour. Despite her meeting with him earlier that month regarding the supposed disappearance of her younger brother, she had certainly not been prepared for his actual personality. For him she had adopted a stereotype of a scheming, nasty person who kept to themselves and probably didn’t have many friends in high school.  
Of course, after her brief meeting with him, her opinion had indeed changed slightly. He was certainly charismatic. Talkative. Driven, if need be. He even had something of a charm around him that could have been described as flirtatious had she not been utterly repelled. Sweetly disgusted by his charming, over-complimentary manner, she had hoped that after the meeting concerning her brother she could turn around and never interact with the man again.  
Admittedly, despite the constant flattery and respectful politeness (which she highly suspected was false), she actually hadn’t minded him too much. If it was anyone else, she might have even considered having a coffee or a smoke with him.

  
However, upon meeting the man named Izaya Orihara, Namie had immediately felt uneasy. Something about him had struck her as wrong. Like there was a puzzle piece missing somewhere that would have otherwise led to her understanding of this person. Like there was something she couldn’t figure out.  
Perhaps, this was the reason she had found herself accepting the offer of becoming his secretary.

  
Of course, this wasn’t the only thing that had spurred her to accept the job. Namie was no fool; she knew how to make decisions. She knew what a valid reason was. Namely, the crisp, five-digit figure sitting temptingly at the bottom of the paper.

  
Did she regret it? Namie was not sure.

  
Watching the composed, sly man known as Izaya Orihara run his fingers through his hair, bite his nails to the quick, and mutter and curse to himself at his desk, she wasn’t quite sure what she thought of anything at this stage.

  
“You shouldn’t be doing that, you know. Nail biting can lead to skin infections.”  
Izaya did not reply.  
“Also, if you’re muttering like that regularly and fidgeting a lot, it can indicate that you’ve got some condition like anxiety or impulse control disorder. I recommend you get a therapist or something.”  
Once again, no reply. Despite all the creaking bookshelves and the multiple telephone sets and the city roaring just outside the windows, the apartment made no sound.  
Namie snorted, loudly. Izaya twitched.  
“I’m thinking. Please don’t bother me. Also, I don’t think nail-biting is something you can link directly to mental health.”  
“I wouldn’t have brought it up if you were someone else, but knowing you, it’s not unlikely.”  
“That was a pretty rude remark.”  
“Don’t get pissed. I’m a neuroscientist. It’s just an observation.”  
Izaya just sighed and went back to staring intently at his screen, rubbing his index fingers in circular motions against his temples.  
Namie groaned inwardly and went back to her files.

  
***

  
Life as a secretary is not thrilling. Despite being glamorised and dramaticized constantly in rom-coms and soap operas, it’s nothing like the life of affairs, fateful encounters and tears that people seem to hold so close to their perceptions.  
Put simply, it is boring. And the case of an ambitious, independant woman like Yagiri Namie to serve under an abnormal, irritating and work-obsessed man like Izaya Orihara was no exception.

  
Namie, a fast, punctual and effective worker, often found herself short of tasks to carry out in between calls; and so naturally she found herself perched on the emergency stairs, staring out onto the noisy, mist-shrouded Shinjuku district, a cigarette dangling from her left hand. She took a puff of it and let the smoke stream out her mouth into the wind; it seemed to blend into the fog and was gone. She ritually did this, long drags of the cigarette and slow breaths out into the wind. Slowing down her breathing relaxed her; she allowed her mind to wander to other places. Eventually, she wasn’t really even thinking at all; just wasting time. The phone she had taken lay silently, unringing beside her. She sat there, legs dangling through the black-painted iron bars on the emergency steps, resting her face on her elbows, until eventually the cigarette was little more than a stub two centimetres long. She puffed out the smoke and dropped the stub down through the bars; it fell into the fog and was lost from sight.

  
“You really shouldn’t do that, you know. That stump might fall right on someone’s head. Or a stray cat. Or a Raira schoolgirl’s homework.”

  
Namie jumped with the shock of hearing another person’s voice. She reluctantly turned her head to see Izaya standing behind her with a nonchalant expression. He laughed a bit at her reaction.

  
“Lost in thought, huh?”

  
Namie just grumbled indignantly, turning back to stare out at the city. Izaya walked over and sat beside her, copying her posture. They were quiet for a while. The two had not known each other for much longer than a month, but everyone has their own struggles, and sometimes one can feel more comfortable with a stranger than anyone else. It is an escape and a luxury to be in the company of someone uninvolved in all your troubles. The silence was comfortable although they were both wrapped in their own thoughts.

  
“I bet you probably sit here a lot,” Namie said, her speech muffled a little by her arms covering her mouth slightly.

“Well, people-watching is my hobby,” he answered truthfully. Namie tutted.

“Hobbies are stupid.”

“I wonder.”

They were silent for a while more. Wordlessly, Namie pulled the cigarette packet out of her pocket and nudged Izaya with her elbow, holding it out. He smiled, shaking his head.

“I don’t smoke,” he said quietly.

 

* * *

 

“G~ood mor~ning!” Izaya sang from his desk as Namie entered the room.  
“Morning!” Namie sang back with equal enthusiasm. Izaya was taken aback.  
“That was surprisingly cheery of you. Good weekend?”  
“You could say so.”

  
Izaya shrugged but didn’t pry, just nodded and got back to his desk. Namie hung up her dripping raincoat, shook the raindrops off her red umbrella, and moved on to her paperwork.  
For approximately an hour, they didn’t talk; Izaya seemed to have been very enwrapped in his work since before Namie had arrived and Namie was not one to look for distraction from her job. Eventually Izaya stretched out his arms and yawned, leaning back.

  
“Coffee?” Namie asked absent-mindedly.  
“Oh, if you don’t mind.”  
Namie nodded and put down the books she was carrying, walking over to the adjoining kitchenette.

“By the way,” Izaya said casually. “-have you told anyone that you’re working for me?”  
Namie frowned.  
“I don’t think so. It’s possible I might have mentioned it in small talk or something, but I haven’t really brought it up especially. Why?”  
“No, it’s nothing.”  
Namie paused for a second, then, unconcerned, walked back and put one of the mugs of coffee on his desk.

“Thanks,” he said. “Oh, and on an unrelated topic, that umbrella you had this morning. It was red, right?”  
“Uh, yeah,” Namie said awkwardly.  
“The one you had two days ago was black and it had a rubber handle, not a wooden one. And on the first day you came here, it was white and it had a pattern.”

Namie stiffened.

“Your point?”  
“Just an observation. I wasn’t expecting a practical woman like you to have a hobby like collecting umbrellas.”  
“It’s not a hobby. It’s been raining a lot lately.” She replied curtly.  
Izaya chuckled a bit.  
“I don’t mind, you know. It’s just surprising. I thought you disapproved of hobbies.”  
“It’s not a hobby.”  
Izaya just laughed again. Namie turned her face away and busied herself with the books.

  
***

  
“I’m taking my break now,” said Namie matter-of-factly.  
“Alright,” Izaya called back although she was already half out the door. He rarely had any qualms with Namie’s breaks, mainly because she usually got most of the necessary filing done within the first few hours she was around. The door shut, then opened again a few seconds later.  
“Call for you,” Namie said irritably, holding out one of the various phones she had on her. Izaya had insisted on it, mainly because in his line of work, the time you take to tend to a client can be the difference between life and death. For the client or for you.  
“Thanks,” he said slowly, taking the phone from her.  
“I’m not picking up any more until I’m back,” she said, putting the other two phones on his desk. “Pick up your own damn calls.”  
Izaya probably would have argued with her had he not been obliged to answer the phone vibrating with impatience. Instead, he just awkwardly waved her away. She didn’t need telling twice, and was out the door in a heartbeat.

  
“Hello?”

* * *

  
When Namie came back, Izaya was initally nowhere to be seen. Some of the papers tacked to the walls rustled about and a few pages of an open book on the coffee table turned, and Namie turned her head to see that the fire escape door was slightly ajar. She hung up her coat and shoved, with some difficulty, the blue striped umbrella into the relatively crowded umbrella rack before walking over to the emergency door and glancing through the gap.

  
Izaya was sitting there turned away from her, legs hanging out through the bars and chin resting in his arms. There was a cigarette in his mouth.

  
“I thought you didn’t smoke,” she mused.

  
“I don’t,” he said, quietly.

  
***


	2. february

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beware the withering stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think the story is picking up a little now. again, it's pretty short, sorry !! the chapters should get a little longer towards the middle of the story.
> 
> as a note: this fic is going to reference HEAVILY to the light novels, mainly izaya's pursuits and contacts. it might be a little bit harder to understand if you haven't read up to around volume 7.   
> also, warning for no regard whatsoever for the canon timeline.

**FEBRUARY**

 

_The day she fell._

“—I got it. Thanks, Seiji. See you then. Bye-bye.”

Namie made a ‘chu’ sound into the phone and hung up the call. She smiled to herself shyly, like a schoolgirl, as she slipped the mobile back into her coat pocket.

Izaya could joke about it all he wanted, it wouldn’t have any effect on her love for her brother.

Yawning a little, Namie stepped onto the escalator. It was late, a Sunday night. While Shinjuku station was brightly lit, the white-blue panel lighting from the high ceilings flooding the massive underground tunnels—

It didn’t change the sense of emptiness that lingers only in the dark.

Namie wasn’t bothered by it, although she did note that the station did seem significantly emptier than it should have been at this time of night.

In fact, upon further investigation—

She was the only person there.

Namie looked all around. There were three escalators on this particular line, two going down and one going up, to cope with the massive crowds during rush hour; and long escalators they were. The line Namie took to get back to Ikebukuro was the furthest underground line; to reach the bottom of the escalator would take a good two minutes, if you weren’t actively walking down. At one point, the escalators broke off to allow passengers to join the adjoining train line, or take the second set of escalators to continue down to the furthest underground. As  Namie reached the platform, she took a brief detour; walked over to the left, and then to the right platforms. There were no trains, which was not unusual. At this time of night trains would normally take considerably longer to arrive than they would during the day.

What bothered Namie was the lack of human beings.

Within the huge central tunnel heading down, down, down –

Or the brief stop in between –

Or the left platform with trains heading central –

Or the right platform with trains heading outskirts –

There was no single human soul present.

Namie slowly walked away from the right platform and went to stand back in the centre of the stop in between the two escalators. She hesitated, turned and tried to inconspicuously look up to see if there was anyone on the escalators approaching from behind.

However, there was nobody in sight.

Slowly, Namie turned her gaze back and paused before the second central escalator heading down to her stop. She lightly moved one hand over the moving railings, not gripping on, allowing the rubber to steadily pass underneath her palm and move down with the sounds of  the unstopping escalator.

Namie was a practical woman, however over-analysing situations was a trait she did ashamedly possess.

Namie felt her blood run cold as a surge of fear-induced adrenaline went through her.

Her thoughts glanced back on the threats she had received around a month ago.

Namie shut her eyes.

Stop ruminating.

It is late. It is Sunday.

This is not unusual.

Where is everyone?

This is not unusual.

Why is there nobody here?Why is there nobody here?WhyWhy

This isn’t strange. This isn’t.

Nobody around. Nobody anywhere.

 

A familiar paranoia started to creep up Namie’s spine.

 

It’s not strange.

DIE YAGIRI

It’s not strange.

www i hope the black rider gets her

It’s not strange.

The Dollars will eat her whole LOL

It’s not strange.

 

Deep, deep within Namie’s mind, a sudden pulse began to beat on her brain.

 

***

 

A man called Yodogiri Jinnai had contacted Orihara Izaya.

“Yodogiri Jinnai? Where have I heard that name before?”

“You won’t have.”

Izaya bit his lip. He had only heard the person on the other side of the phone speak briefly, however something about the manner of the voice made him uneasy.

“I see.”

There was a pause.

“So was there something you wanted me for, Yodogiri-san?”

Yodogiri Jinnai replied almost immediately. It seemed he had been waiting for Izaya to speak.

“Not you, directly. For the moment. No, Orihara Izaya, what I wished to speak about was the secretary you have recently hired.”

“…”

Yodogiri Jinnai chortled.

“I will not lecture you, Orihara Izaya. For a man your age, I actually admire you. However it doesn’t change the fact that my knowledge of this city is far greater than yours. You are, after all, merely an informant.”

“ ‘Merely’ is not a word I would use, seeing as I’ve managed to make a professional career out of it. I won’t get into this now. I would ask you to continue with whatever information it is you have acquired about my secretary.”

“How mature. Certainly, I’ll continue.”

Izaya shoved the stub of his cigarette into the ash tray he had bought that same day, and switched the phone to his other hand.

“Your secretary, as I’m sure you’re aware, is a woman with a somewhat questionable past.”

“…”

With each word that dripped out of the saccharine electronic voice, Izaya felt his unease grow. He started to bite his nails.

“I won’t bore you with a sob story, we are both  busy men. I’m sure you’re well-informed enough on your secretary’s dubious activities in the past. However I would request that you _do not get involved_.”

“…”

“I  believe this will not be the first time you have heard this, Orihara Izaya, however I would like you to understand that I am not a mere yakuza thug, nor am I a certain violence-prone monster. What I wanted to say is this: I want you to stay in Shinjuku.”

Oh?

Izaya could not speak.

Yodogiri Jinnnai laughed again. His voice was not mocking but regardless, it was all that came to mind when one heard it.

“Cat got your tongue, Orihara-kun? I’ll say it again, so we’re clear. I want you to stay in Shinjuku and not interfere with any future incidia that does not concern you.”

Izaya could have laughed were the gravity of the man’s words not weighing down upon his mind.

Of course,  Izaya had no intention whatsoever of following the advice of the man named Yodogiri Jinnai. Interfering with incidia that did not concern him was precisely Izaya’s job. He had been doing it since high school and had no intention of stopping now. However, Izaya knew the way of clients such as the one on the phone now and direct challenge was a method to dispel them. Izaya had not, in fact, heard of the man named Yodogiri Jinnai but he was fairly confident in his own abilities that the man would quickly be out of the picture  in no time once he had pulled a few strings.

And so Izaya decided to humour him, for the time being.

“And if I do not wish to stay in Shinjuku?”

“There will be consequences which could upset you.”

Sure.

Izaya was fairly certain the man was one of two things:

One: bluffing.

Two: incompetent.

In either case, neither concerned Izaya. However, what Izaya was concerned about was Yodogiri Jinnai’s apparent interest in Namie Yagiri.

Izaya was not, as such, ‘fond’ of the woman but he was very much intrigued by her, as far as intrigue caused by humans goes. Furthermore, she did a job and she did it well.

If Yodogiri Jinnai had some kind of grudge against Namie or her previous pursuits, as many had done – admittedly, for fairly good reason – Izaya could not let him see through revenge.

Whether it was out of protection for Namie or dislike for Yodogiri Jinnai – or both – all that Izaya could think as the man talked was exactly how little he cared.

It was no matter. He would call up someone and have the arrogant man named Yodogiri Jinnai removed.

He had finished talking.

“Do you understand, Orihara Izaya?”

“I understand. Regards.”

Izaya hung up, and leaned back in his chair. He spun around to look down on the night city through the huge glass panes that made up the wall opposite him. The city sparkled with life and death.

How amusing humans are.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere in Shinjuku, the body of a woman in a red coat lay face-down at the foot of an escalator. 


	3. march

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> surprise, bitch. bet you thought you'd seen the last of me  
> i'm gonna use the age-old writer's excuse to say this: Life Happened.  
> yeah so it only took three years. here's the issue, y'all - i had this whole fic planned out in my head when i was 14, yeah. i wrote the first two chapters, the seventh chapter, and the last two, and had notes on the content for the rest. the thing is that once i did all that writing, i completely lost the energy to write the in-between chapters; time went by, life happened, i became an adult, finished school, moved out, and didn't spare durarara a second thought.   
> but i got a comment this morning which asked for an update, and i thought, yknow what, i owe it to the 1 person who still has this fic bookmarked after all these years  
> it's not gonna be amazing, the chapters will be short and the plot will be iffy, because i haven't read the light novels in literal years, i've forgotten most everything that was going on in durarara, and my writing style has changed MASSIVELY. but i am gonna make an effort to push and finish this fic, just because, well, it'll be nice to have one finished fic under my belt. retroactively i'm sorry

_the day she waited._

 

Namie woke up to a cold room and the sound of a bleeping heart rate monitor.

In an attempt to get a better view of her surroundings, Namie sat up - only to become acutely aware of the extreme pain coursing through her back. She fell back onto the pillows, wincing.

_What had happened?_

Namie was not sure.

She remembered standing at the front of the escalator, and no more.

And yet, it was cold and light outside, pale sunlight filtering in through the flimsy gossamer curtains, and she was in a sterile room, with a blue, unfamiliar ceiling. Around her was the artificial, medicinal scent reminiscient of the one in her old laboratory.

She missed that laboratory.

Resigned to her immobility, she sighed, gazing at the ceiling, and after a pause, pressed the button on the side of her bed to call for a nurse.

It took long enough, but eventually one came scurrying in, a portly little woman who couldn’t have been older than 30.

“Hello,” she said kindly. “Is everything alright?”

“I’d like to know what happened,” Namie demanded, as assertively as she could manage without wincing in pain. The nurse’s face fell, looking crumpled.

“You fell down an escalator, my dear,” she said. “You almost broke your neck. It was lucky that man found you when he did, or the internal bleeding could have…” she trailed off, sounding sad. “It’s really a miracle you haven’t sustained any permanent injury. The impact-”

“What man?”

“Oh- an Orihara-san, if I remember correctly. He came to visit, but you were still in intensive care, so he left.”

Namie paused to digest this. She had fallen in the tube station. Izaya had found her? The only way he could have done that was if he tracked her phone – she hadn’t been anywhere near Ikebukuro at the time. What a joke. He needed to have a stern talking-to about personal and work boundaries.

Still… had he not decided to search for her, she could be dead. That was a sobering reality.

Namie didn’t think about her own death much.

She snapped out of her thoughts, remembering the nurse was still in the room, and as she did, a thought bashed its way into her mind like a baseball bat shattering a glass window.

“I was pushed.”

The nurse looked at her pityingly.

“I don’t think that’s likely, dear. Why would anyone decide to push a stranger down a flight of stairs? Was there any motive?”

 _Plenty,_ Namie thought, but of course she couldn’t say that out loud. Being on the wrong side of the law could be irritating at times.

“No,” Namie said, putting on her best resigned voice. “I suppose I just fell.”

The nurse looked at her doubtfully.

“Alright, dear. Try and catch up on your sleep, and I’ll check up on you in a few hours, alright?”

Crystal clear, _dear._ Namie nodded curtly, feeling annoyed.

She was in a very precarious situation. Someone had tried to murder or seriously injure her, and she was currently alone, unable to move, in a hospital bed. They might try to come and finish the job tonight.

She needed to call Izaya.

***

“I told you not to interfere.”

“Interfere? Why, Yodogiri-san. I’ve stayed in Shinjuku like a good boy and done everything you asked, everything you asked being nothing at all.”

“You assisted Yagiri Namie.”

“Oh, was I not supposed to save her life? My mistake. I thought she’d just tripped. She’s always doing that.”

“This is your last warning, Orihara.”

“That’s really interesting. Bye-bye.”

The receiver hangs up with a click and Izaya sighs, looking out of the window.

So someone was after Namie.

He supposed it wasn’t surprising; she was, it had to be said, not a popular woman. He’d done some research into the man named Yodogiri Jinnai but so far had found nothing except some ties to a talent agency, most notably responsible for Ruri Hijiribe. Nothing of substance. Nothing explaining a motive.

Ah, ah. Namie Yagiri. Who hadn’t she pissed off?

The CCTV feed at the tube station had reported nothing at all; it had been fed a loop. Someone had hacked it before they pushed Namie. In any other circumstances that would have been investigated, but Izaya had pulled some strings, ensured the whole thing was cleared under the rug, ruled off as an accident. It was better for everyone, especially Namie; the last thing she needed was police knowing, well, _anything_ about her.

Break the law, break a leg. That’s what Shinra had once told Izaya.

Meaning, you do crime, crime will be done unto you. You evade police, so do your enemies. No justice will be done for the souls of the wicked. Sinners on sinners will God inflict. Yada, yada, yada.

It didn’t matter. He still had a secretary, albeit one who was under fire, and he was still going to do whatever he damn pleased. Yodogiri Jinnai could suck one.

**Author's Note:**

> i've had this fic in my head for quite some time. namie/izaya is a ship i've always found really interesting and so i tried to portray it correctly, to the best of my ability. i hope you enjoy it!
> 
> as always, comments and kudos greatly appreciated ^ q ^


End file.
